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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29381862">though i wanna win i love to party</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horsantula/pseuds/Horsantula'>Horsantula</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Blaseball (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dallas Steaks (Blaseball Team), Gen, Grand Siesta, Heist, Renaissance Faire, Valentine's Day</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:07:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,236</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29381862</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horsantula/pseuds/Horsantula</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dickerson Morse and Kline Greenlemon accompany their teammates to the Lovers' Valentine's Day renaissance faire. But they're not just there to mingle.</p><p>Wins are physical objects.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dickerson Morse &amp; Kline Greenlemon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>though i wanna win i love to party</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The PolyHedron certainly wasn’t an unfamiliar sight, what with all of the games he’d played there, but Dickerson Morse had to admit that he’d never seen it quite like this. Starting in the parking lot and extending into the stadium, a renaissance village, complete with numerous swooping gables draped in heart-shaped banners, had been erected. Somehow it looked so natural, as if it had always been there. </p><p>The site was already crowded with blaseball players milling about, in a very different sort of uniform than usual. By the time Kit steered their minivan into a parking spot and let everyone out, they had to follow the flow of the crowd up to the large wooden gate, flanked by two stone turrets, that would let them into the faire. </p><p>Though Dickerson had initially been reluctant to dress up, constant badgering from his teammates had convinced him otherwise. He sported a billowy sleeveless pirate shirt, dark poofy pants, and a long pirate coat. These clashed fabulously with his usual dark sunglasses and meat-marbled newsboy cap, which he couldn’t be persuaded to remove. Perched on top of the cap was his teammate Kline Greenlemon, two feet tall. They wore a blue belted tunic and a flat cap of their own, tailored wide to fit their lemon head, with a large feather hanging off the side.</p><p>“Looking forward to anything in particular?” Kit turned and asked the two of them, raising their voice slightly to be heard over the din of chatter and distant bagpipes.</p><p>“Um, not really,” Dickerson said. He cleared his throat. “Gonna check out a little of everything.”</p><p>“Sounds good,” Kit said. “Conner and I are probably going to check out the turkey legs first. I hear they’re roasting them over an open fire.”</p><p>“Is there jlousting?” Dickerson asked. “I might want to check that out.”</p><p>“No, I don’t think so,” Kit said. “Oh well. Maybe Ronan and Gallup would’ve come for that.”</p><p>“Wonder what they’ve been up to these days. Haven’t really seen ‘em around.”</p><p>“Yeah. Kinda strange.”</p><p>Kit and Conner made a beeline over to the food area, and the other Steaks present dissipated as well. When Dickerson was sure the coast was clear, he walked further into the little village with Kline in tow, passing stalls hawking handmade pewter mugs, mouthwatering sweets, and beautiful handmade valentines for loved ones. </p><p>“See anything?” Dickerson whispered to Kline, who had a good vantage point. </p><p>“The stadium’s open,” Kline said. “Getting in shouldn’t be a problem.”</p><p>It was much too early to celebrate, but the corner of Dickerson’s mouth twitched upward. “Good.”</p><p>The two of them weaved through the throng, focused on the stadium ahead, though the wafting smells of delicious food and eye-catching wares made that rather difficult. As they passed the raised flowerbeds, bursting with roses in bloom, that flanked the courtyard in front of the entrance, someone called, “Hey! Dickerson!”</p><p>Dickerson turned. Perched atop a soapbox was an old teammate of his, wearing a blue medieval dress and bodice. Her beard was neatly combed, and she was juggling six flaming blaseball bats with ease. Somehow she even managed to wave at him in the midst of it.</p><p>“How’re you doing, Stew?” Dickerson said. “You must be right at home.”</p><p>“Superb, thanks for asking. How’s your ren faire going?” </p><p>“Uh…” Dickerson cast about wildly. “Me and Kline were going to, uh, buy some of those…”</p><p>“Candles,” Kline supplied, motioning at a stall across the way. </p><p>“Yes. Candles.”</p><p>“Ah! You can’t go wrong with any of those,” Stew said, juggling the bats so fast they formed a circular blur around her face. “Have fun! The Mints miss you, but we’re glad you’re enjoying the Steaks.”</p><p>Dickerson waved goodbye to her, and just to corroborate, he and Kline went over to the candle stall. They bought some nice-smelling beeswax candles, which Dickerson tucked in the pocket of his coat.</p><p>“Maybe we can burn them in the locker room,” Kline suggested. “Just to cover up the sweat smell.”</p><p>“As long as we don’t burn down the whole stadium.”</p><p>“Coach is on fire all the time and nothing’s happened yet,” Kline pointed out. “It should be fine.”</p><p>“You have a point.”</p><p>Awash in the scent of roses, Dickerson and Kline stepped inside the PolyHedron. The interior was decked out in elaborate banners, streamers, and refreshments stalls selling tantalized candied roasted nuts and mead. Though the rows of beanbags in the stand were the same as usual, the blaseball diamond had been repurposed into a small arena for archery and other assorted games. </p><p>Dickerson and Kline didn’t pause to enjoy any of the festivities. Instead, they took a left, out of the main stadium and into a side tunnel leading to the locker rooms and offices. Few people were roaming these halls, but even so Kline checked both ways and gave an affirmative tap on Dickerson’s head before they ducked into a shadowed side hallway. </p><p>Dickerson turned his coat inside out, which revealed a mundane second side, and drew from its depths a trilby, taken from his second job as a private investigator. Before he placed it on his head, Kline boosted themself up his shoulder and settled underneath, just like Leach did on Herman’s before a game.</p><p>When Kline tapped on Dickerson’s head again, signaling there was no one in sight, Dickerson emerged. It had been his duty to research the layout of the PolyHedron, Kline’s to come up with a plan, and now the business of executing it lay on both their shoulders. They had both memorized the route down to the vault, which had not been an easy task. The PolyHedron was also composed of numerous residential areas, a community center, and garden, among other things, so they had come up with a winding route through the hallways most likely to be deserted. </p><p>Dickerson’s footsteps made no noise as he crept along. Down a flight of stairs, which echoed slightly more, then down another dark hallway. Some raucous noise came from one of the nearby closed doors, so they continued the other direction. Through a nearby wide window they could see one of the greenhouses, sun-dappled and tranquil.</p><p>Navigating the winding maze, taking a few flights down and up, it was a few minutes’ walk until they reached their destination, despite memorizing the way ahead of time. At the end of a long hallway, a nondescript, yet sturdy door. No sign of anyone around. It was this room to which Dickerson and Kline had trailed some of the Lovers players last season, and that resembled a similar one deep within George Foreman Stadium. </p><p>Confident they were alone, Kline slipped out from under Dickerson’s hat and stepped onto his palm. Dickerson lifted them until they were face-to-face with the lock. Slipping out a pair of lockpicks, they made quick work of it as Dickerson anxiously craned his neck to patrol behind them. </p><p>The lock clicked, and the door swung open. The first thing Dickerson noticed was the luster of gold, reflecting the overhead light. Trophy cases lined with wins from past seasons, each a golden blaseball mounted atop a wooden base. Some more had been placed along the floor as the shelves had reached capacity. </p><p>Every blaseball team received one when they won a game, and every team had some kind of room for storing them. The Lovers had so many, they wouldn’t even notice if a few were gone. But the Steaks, on the other hand, would get a nice little head start for Season 12. Maybe they’d even win a round in the playoffs this time.</p><p>Dickerson was about to step inside and take one from the pile on the floor. But before he could, there was movement from the shadows near the edge of the room. A figure, reclining, stirred and mumbled, “How the hell’d you find me, Knight? I’ll be right there, just gimme five.”</p><p>Dickerson and Kline exchanged a panicked look. They would’ve made a run for it if the figure hadn’t sat up completely and gasped, “Hey! What are you doing here?”</p><p>Sheepish, Dickerson and Kline turned back. The figure stood up, revealing that they had been snoozing on one of the Lovers’ trademark comfy beanbags. As they stepped into the light, rubbing their eyes, Dickerson realized that he and Kline were in the presence of one of the league’s most famous (or infamous) players: Jaylen Hotdogfingers. Their hair was rumpled, and, rather than any renaissance clothes, she wore a <a href="https://www.blaseballcares.com/collections/all/products/yeah-ive-been-incinerated-returned-indebted-refinanced-consolidated-mild-flickering-t-shirt"> T-shirt, which bore some sort of long slogan</a>, and sweatpants. Out of the many lines of text on said shirt, Dickerson could only make out the bottom line: <em> WHAT ABOUT IT? </em></p><p>“What are you doing here?” Dickerson said for lack of anything better.</p><p>“What does it look like?” Jaylen gestured to the beanbag. “I’m napping. There’s absolutely no way I’m going to be out there with the crowds in the heat for more than an hour at a time.”</p><p>“In the win vault?” Kline asked. </p><p>“Yes! It’s dark and lockable, and no one comes down here during the offseason.” Jaylen pointed their finger at them. “Until you two. Stealing. Thought you were Steaks, not Thieves.”</p><p>Dickerson shrugged. There was no way to come up with an excuse believable enough. “What does a few less wins matter?”</p><p>“Didn’t I give your team twenty-four runs in one game last season?” Jaylen pointed out. Her tone was mock-incredulous. “You got two extra wins. Isn’t that enough?”</p><p>“Yeah, but we need to start the season off strong,” Kline said. They picked up one of the wins off the ground, turned it upside down, and spun the golden blaseball on their finger like a blasketball.</p><p>Jaylen heaved a sigh. “Tell you what. If you leave me alone in peace to nap, and tell absolutely NO ONE I’m down here, I’ll let you take a win. Just one.”</p><p>“Really?” Kline and Dickerson said in unison.</p><p>“It can be our little secret.”</p><p>Dickerson and Kline exchanged a glance, then looked back at Jaylen. She yawned.</p><p>“I’d really like to get back to my nap, soooo…”</p><p>Dickerson looked back at Kline. They nodded.</p><p>“Deal,” he said.</p><p>“Great,” Jaylen said, already retreating back to her beanbag. She flopped down on it with an audible <em> thump, </em>sinking deep into the plush material. “Good talk. See you next season.”</p><p>Kline handed one of the wins to Dickerson, who stowed it in his coat. </p><p>“See you,” Dickerson said gruffly.</p><p>“Bye!” Kline chirped.</p><hr/><p>Five minutes later, the two of them were sitting above the blaseball diamond-turned-archery arena, dressed in their renaissance regalia and munching on candied nuts as they watched various players struggle to hit the targets.</p><p>“YOU CAN DO IT!” Kline cheered one of the Sunbeams players as she nocked an arrow. She turned and gave them a thumbs up, then shot three consecutive arrows into the bulls-eye, splitting the first and second ones in half. </p><p>“Nice,” Dickerson said begrudgingly. </p><p>Above the arena the sky was pristine blue, and from the other side of the stadium walls the distant noise of bagpipes drifted over. The adrenaline from the heist had worn off, and Dickerson thought something to eat, or a jaunt around the fairgrounds, would be nice.</p><p>Almost as if they had read his mind, Kline turned and said, “Wanna go for a walk? Maybe we should see what Conner and Kit are up to.”</p><p>“Sounds good to me,” Dickerson said. He tilted his head back and emptied the rest of the candied nuts into his mouth, then Kline hopped up onto his cap again. </p><p>Dickerson sauntered out of the stadium, whistling a cheery tune, but when his foot crossed the threshold and hit the ground, something jolted him to attention. Sudden music, blaring from his pocket. Some sort of medieval-sounding tune. It wasn’t his phone, and so that left only one option. </p><p>Though he knew the nearby fairgoers might have some questions, Dickerson pulled the win out of his pocket and held it up by the wooden base. It was undeniably the source of the music, a tinny melody featuring what sounded like a hurdy-gurdy. As he and Kline watched, frozen, the golden blaseball split in half and from it extended a gradually unfurling banner, mounted on a post, that read <em> HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY! </em></p><p>Dickerson’s stomach dropped. Someone had anticipated them coming. He looked down at the cute little banner that someone had painstakingly decorated in elaborate calligraphy and hearts, and as Kline started chuckling, he couldn’t help but burst out laughing as well. </p><p>“Looks like we got pranked,” Kline said. “Well, we deserved it.”</p><p>“Can’t argue with that.” Dickerson stowed the fake win back in his pocket. “It’ll look good in the locker room, I guess.”</p><p>“Let’s go look around,” Kline suggested. Across a nearby green, Kit and Conner were chatting and laughing with some other players, tending to a fire and stirring a bubbling cooking pot. A band of musicians stood atop a stage, belting out a romantic ballad. And the rows of stalls, bursting with vibrant wares, invited them to browse.</p><p>“Why don’t we go check out those swords?” Dickerson said, motioning at one of the booths lined with weapons gleaming in the sun.</p><p>“Lead the way!”</p><p>Dickerson smiled. Though the heist hadn’t been successful, he had to admit he was having a blast. Maybe the real win had been spending a day at the renaissance faire with his best friend.</p><p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading! I loved writing this silly fic.</p><p>Title from "a face to the name" by the Garages, it's my favorite song of theirs.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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